


Good Old Fashioned Fairy Tale

by Phantomsforever



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Monologue, angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-23
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-12 17:48:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phantomsforever/pseuds/Phantomsforever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I always knew it would end this way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Old Fashioned Fairy Tale

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the lovely therecognitionscene for reading and betaing and just being generally awesome.

I always knew it would end this way.

We weren’t meant to be happy. A criminal mastermind and his sniper? Not exactly the stuff of fairy tales.

That’s not to say that there weren’t moments when I’d crack a smile at one of his more ridiculous schemes. You should have heard the things this man came up with. Actually, it’s better that you don’t. Because then I’d have to kill you. Ha. Like you’re important enough.

He could talk for hours about nothing and everything. Asteriodal dynamics, fractional calculus, differential sums, special relativity. I think the little prick just liked the sound of his own voice (not that I minded). He’d go on and on about the most random ideas. Something would strike his fancy, didn’t matter what it was, (one time it was Edwardian corsets… _corsets_. That was an interesting week.) and he’d spend the next few days, if not weeks, researching every miniscule detail. Hunched over that little laptop, only eating when I forced something on him. But he’d drink tea (when I call it tea, I’m being very liberal with the definition – it was more like tea-flavoured sugar). He’d reach for the cup even if I hadn’t made any. I don’t think he even realized what he was doing at times. Just expected me to keep him living until he got bored and moved on to The Next Big Thing.

He was always pushing for something new, something bigger, something better, a sodding challenge. The clients were always _insipid_ or _pedestrian_ or _mundane_ or insert endless tirade of adjectives that all mean _boring_ here. When he was finally pushed by someone, when someone gave him an acceptable distraction; he was almost giddy. Bouncing off the walls, like some kid on caffeine. Must’ve been nice, being able to get out of his head for a few days…

_I was never so lucky._

The job was the most important. It came first, would always come first, for both of us. The clients, when I’d go with him, always thought I was some sort of bodyguard; a mindless brute meant to intimidate and protect, but not much else. That’s what he wanted: for them to underestimate me. For them to think that I could barely form coherent sentences that didn’t consist of “Yes, sir” or “Got it, boss.” The pandering looks of the men were always worth it, though, when they’d finally see my intelligence. When they finally realized that Jim Moriarty _does not_ employ idiots or brutes and that I was neither. Plebeians.

They didn’t know the amount of time I spend before each hit, running recon, assembling my team, making sure people can actually do their jobs. That’s all before the actual kill. Then, it’s ballistic coefficients, wind speed, weight and velocity of the bullet, temperature conditions, trajectory calculations. My mind doesn’t sit idly as I wait for the target to move into position. It whirrs, probably at the speed of Jim’s on his more manic days. So don’t fucking call me a thug with a gun. You don’t want to be on my bad side, mate. You’ll end up on the wrong side of a bullet.

And killing’s not all I do for Moriarty. My team is the SG-1 of The Organization. No one has the access that I do. I don’t think for one fucking second that Jim trusts _any_ of his employees completely, but he trusts me more than the rest of them combined. And for good reason. I’m the best at what I do. Like I said, he doesn’t employ idiots.

I’m not just an employee, either. I’m his fucking mother.

“Jim, eat something or I’ll shove it down your throat.”

“Until you become a cyborg, you’re going to have to sleep, you twat.”

"Sugar, tea, and biscuits are _not_ a meal.”

Little wanker would die without me. 

He still did.

Didn’t even warn me.

Prick.

I wouldn’t have stopped you, you know.

~~I would have gone with you.~~

Bastard.


End file.
